I looked down a barrel of a gun, to be greeted by the scent of a confused purpose proposed by a so called thug. his name was queue whose thoughts have never dropped a click of fear…his windows were tinted blue as if amused by the walk he took every friday night, where new urbanized bodies walk as if in a trans, as if mistrusted by the world where cats still bust a rhyme as they tip toe into mother natures darkness…sneakers of the night, droppers of the beat, mistress to the throne, power in he who is still to be held and foretold. Like a mistress whos prime has come to be, as she walks with her kind. She remembers the walk from the last raid, where she faced her soul in a mirror and saw a barren landscape where make up has never fallen. Where the tides of time have come to sweep her away. The sound of the cocking gun has become her music, dancing to raining bullets as his coward gestures retreated, taking her back to a time where music wore her name. Where the sound of children playing still meant something, where being in the kitchen still meant there was something cooking, now dining with the devil as he orders, an innocent cry is heard in the distance, only to be held into his cracked hands, a grip that nearly stopped her heart as she came crumbling, the great wall of Berlin never feared Starlins reign incase you wondering. A people devouring cannibal called hatred, meant to disempower her innocence as history writes its a name as an autograph, remember me it says. Where tamel tigers still live infear to be made gods. To be worshiped by a people yet to learn language, an ancient civilization yet to be freed all in the name of being intellectually captured. Welcome to NeighbourhoodEarth
Posted on: Thu, 13 Nov 2014 19:32:51 +0000
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